


The Adventure Of The Warrenders (1891)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [126]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Corruption, Destiel - Freeform, Escape, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Organized Crime, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 01:29:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11243481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: This is the first half of the adventure that took Sherlock from me, but I was unable to publish it at the time because I did not want to endanger the wonderful and brave lady who had helped bring justice down on that vile Professor Moriarty. She agreed to write her part in the villain's downfall, but requested that it not be published until after her death and, of course, that certain geographical details be changed. She passed in 1923 shortly after my first 'Elementary' collection came out, so I can now publish her truly heroic deeds.





	The Adventure Of The Warrenders (1891)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of Miss Minnie Warrender'.

_[Begin narration by Miss Millicent Nigella Warrender]_  
**Stephensville, Dominion of Newfoundland, 1922**

"I have to say how very startled I was when dear Doctor Watson communicated with me vial the electronic telegraph – is it not remarkable what technology can achieve these days? - across the wide Atlantic Ocean and requested that I, Minnie Warrender, write the story of how I was dragged into one of the most Important cases ever undertaken by his friend, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I only met the latter on one occasion, but remember him clearly, especially given what ensued so soon afterwards with the great man's untimely 'death'. Fortunately all came right in the end, but I was still shocked when Doctor Watson suggested that I write this tale from my own humble point of view. He was however quite insistent, so subject to certain conditions, I agreed.

I was born in the year that the hated Corn Laws were repealed, eighteen hundred and forty-eight, the fourth and last child of Captain James Warrender of the Household Cavalry and Mrs. Warrender, née Miss Urania Crawley. My mother had a fascination with the name 'Millicent' which she bestowed on all three of her daughters, our sole brother being named Beaufort for reasons I knew not. My sisters were Millicent Patricia ('Patty') and Millicent Sarah ('Missy') but (most fortunately, as matters transpired) neither of them featured heavily in what happened. My brother, some five years older than myself, studied to be a lawyer and rose rapidly in his profession, becoming a judge some six years before the events that I am about to describe took place.

Looking back on those times, I suppose that I was the archetypal Victorian old maid. I had not been blest with the good looks of my sisters, but I was not jealous when they married well and had children, as I enjoyed visiting my nephews and nieces (and, if truth be told, enjoyed being able to leave them behind at the end of the day when I went back to my own small and wonderfully quiet house!). I was also fortunate in financial matters, in that, although my parents had died in the late seventies, they had left me exceptionally well provided for. My brother had never bothered to maintain a relationship with them, and since my sisters were both married to wealthy gentlemen, most of the family wealth came to me. I was able to purchase a small house in Lavender Grove, on the edge of St. John's Wood, and to live there quite contentedly. 

I could have managed comfortably enough on the money from my late papa's investments, but I quite enjoyed supplementing my income by cleaning for two young lawyers who shared a room in Marylebone. It was this circumstance that led to me acquiring rather more excitement than I could ever have wished for and, ultimately, my crossing the wide blue Atlantic to my current home in Newfoundland. I had never been Abroad before this sudden and monumental change in my circumstances, and can only say that I am fortunate to have found in this Dominion somewhere so like England and yet with its own distinctive character. Even the rain seems familiar!

I am of course not the slightest bit intelligent, but I had observed, during my short employment career, that servants and cleaning-ladies seemed to acquire a degree of invisibility amongst those who employ them. The two young men for whom I cleaned would often discuss cases that they were involved in whilst I was finishing my tasks, and seemingly did not care that I overheard. I would of course _never_ have revealed any of their conversations, but it was one such instance of unwanted eavesdropping which led me into my Great Adventure. I cannot reveal the names of these gentlemen for reasons that will become clear later in my tale, so I shall take dear Doctor Watson's advice and use the aliases 'James' and 'Joseph'.

On this particular day, I arrived to find the gentlemen's main room in considerably more of a mess than usual. There was an apologetic note from both gentlemen, stating that they had hosted a friend's birthday party the night before, plus a promise to pay me double for that particular day. They were always fair and honourable like that which, given from what little I knew about the legal profession, was an all too rare trait.

The gentlemen arrived back just as I was finishing off, and again apologized for the mess; indeed, James insisted on my taking home a large parcel of leftovers from the party, which was kind of him. I was boxing up the aforementioned items from the refrigerator in the small kitchen when I chanced to overhear them talking. As I said, I would never normally eavesdrop, but the fact that it was my own surname that was mentioned in the first sentence – well, I felt that that gave me some entitlement, even if it was not about me personally:

”Old Warrender will _never_ say yes!” James said scornfully. “He is all about justice being 'done, and seen to be done'. He will never accept evidence in private, no matter how big the case.”

I pricked up my ears. Yes, I felt guilty, but then the gentlemen knew me as 'Mrs. Fulmer”, I having decided to use my eldest sister's married name to avoid my lowly status being tied to that of my lofty brother. They could not know that I was in fact the sister of the man that they were talking about, Judge Beaufort Warrender.

”There is more to this case than meets the eye”, Joseph replied, “mark my words. An East End pawnbroker gets murdered, and it is up before one of the highest beaks in the land? Pull the other one, Johnnie!”

“Justice for all, Joe”, his friend countered.

“All who can afford it”, Joseph replied. “Piennar is defending the accused chappie, and he is whining like billy-ho that he has not been allowed access to the main witness.”

“They cannot deny him that, surely?” James asked. “It is a legal right.”

“Sally, the secretary at the office, says that the witness is in a safe-house”, Joseph said. “Someone wants him silenced for good, and that only ever happens in big cases. Still, I doubt Old Windy will accept that.”'

I frowned. I knew by this time that my brother's nickname was because of the scale for measuring wind – one of my nephews wanted to be a scientist, and he had told me all about it – and not because of his somewhat unfortunate bodily reaction to certain pulse foods.

”This comes from higher up”, John said confidently. “He will have no choice.”

I doubted that. My brother could be downright truculent when it came to such matters; indeed, my sisters were quite correct when they observed that the best way to get him to do something was to tell him that he absolutely _must not do it!_

+~+~+

For some reason, the words of my young gentlemen stuck in my mind, and that weekend I took myself down to the local library to see if I could find out anything about the case that they had been talking about. I could not of course ask anyone for help – they would have thought my interest in such a matter very strange indeed if not quite inappropriate! – but after some searching, I found the story that they must have been talking about. The East End pawnbroker had been a man called Mr. Edward Fitzroy, and the newspaper speculated in their short article that the murder was related to his business. Like most people, I knew that the area was a most dangerous part of London, so the crime itself did not surprise me. 

What I did find curious was that the newspaper seemed to lose all interest in the crime after the initial report. I was fortunate in that the two lawyers always let me have their copy of the “Times” the day after they had read it, and I enjoyed its in-depth coverage of the many happenings in our great city. And yet, this story had disappeared after just one day. I felt uneasy for some reason, and I knew not why.

Whilst I was in the library I took advantage of their magazine section to enjoy the latest edition of the “Strand” magazine. Mostly fluff and bubble between its bright covers, but I always enjoyed the adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his good friend Doctor John Watson. Some of the cases that they solved together were incredible, considering what little information they often started with. I felt sure that they would be able to solve the Adventure Of The Oddly Disinterested Newspaper-Writers with ease.

I little knew then that they would do just that. With, incredibly, my help!

+~+~+

I would not of course have given a thought to approaching the great Mr. Holmes on so trivial a matter, had not events taken a rather more alarming turn the very next day. I went to clean for my gentlemen as per usual, and returned to find that I had an unexpected visitor, my sister Patty. She was clearly quite distrait, and it took some time (and a large sherry) to get her to come to the point.

“Your dear neighbour Mrs. St. John let me in”, she explained. “A good thing too, for she told me something most upsetting. Sister, we are being watched!”

I was more than a little skeptical. Patty was a good person and did much work for her local church, but she was inclined to gullibility. I braced myself.

“Watched by whom?” I inquired.

“I do not know”, she admitted, “but a woman went to my neighbour in Camberwell and asked all about my family and.... and dear Beau. Then when I came here, Mrs. St. John said that someone had been round asking exactly the same questions about him..... and you!”

I began to feel a little uneasy, and not just because Mrs. St. John (a woman who could talk without any apparent need to draw breath) would doubtless be on about this to me later. I made a mental note to try to avoid her.

“What shall we do?” Patty wailed. “It could be those dreadful white slave-traders!”

“I rather doubt that”, I said, suppressing a smile (my sister had a thing about white slave-traders). “Let us be sensible about this. When I come home from work on Monday, I shall call in on Missy and ask her whether she has experienced anything similar. If not, then it will just be a coincidence.”

“What about Beau?” she asked. I levelled her with a look.

“Can you imagine what _he_ would say if we approached him?” I said, trying to keep a sharp tone from my voice. “We would just be a bunch of silly women who do not know what they are talking about. No, we shall check with Missy and, if the need arises, I have someone upon whom I can call for help.”

If I am brave enough, I added silently.

+~+~+

Sunday passed uneventfully, although I may have offered up some extra prayers in church (Missy was very religious and devoted every Sunday to church business, so her family knew full well not to bother her on the Sabbath). Hence it was Monday that I did indeed call in on my (marginally) more sensible sibling, who had not noticed anything out of the ordinary. But on checking with her neighbours, we did indeed discover that both of them had been asked about her - and our brother. 

It was time for action!

+~+~+

My first and only encounter with Mr. Sherlock Holmes – only later did I come to understand the reasons for his strained appearance and why I saw so little of him – did not go well. I approached 221B Baker Street feeling ever more nervous, until I came to a full stop, presumably to the annoyance of those using the pavement. I stared up at the Georgian building and tried to tell myself that I would not be laughed at, and that it was possible that the great detective might even.....

“I do not bite, madam.”

Too late did my overwrought brain piece together what those words meant. I only realized that there was a Man standing directly behind me on the pavement, and I swung round and screamed at him. 

It was, of course, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I wanted to die!

+~+~+

The ground having most disobligingly failed to open up and swallow me whole, I allowed the gentleman to guide me in to the house and up to his rooms. Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a difficult man to describe; I would have originally said that he was about average height, and only later did I learn that he was a little over six foot tall. He had a generally wind-blown appearance, which was disconcerting as it was a calm day, but his dominant feature was his eyes, which I can only describe as kind, and almost preternaturally blue. I can honestly say that, neither before or since, I have never considered a man truly beautiful (as opposed to handsome), but he shone with an honesty and rectitude that was breathtaking. Thank the Lord that I did not do what I know so many ladies did in his magnificence presence, and start simpering at him.

Despite what someone later claimed, it was a polite smile. _Not_ a simper!

In the room was his famous colleague, Doctor John Watson, who documented his affairs. He was an inch or two taller than the detective, more solidly built and had a no-nonsense air about him. I noted the way that he took the opportunity of his friend settling my nerves to re-arrange the blankets on the fireside chair into which his companion subsequently sat, and that he looked anxiously at him the whole time I was there. 

“Now”, Mr. Holmes said with a smile, “I believe that you came here to seek my help today, madam? May we please know your name?”

Using about twice as many words as were strictly necessary, I managed to explain the recent events that had disconcerted me. Mr. Holmes did not react when I said my name, but I observed that the doctor, taking notes at the table, paused in his writing and looked across at me. When I had finished, Mr. Holmes pressed his long fingers together and thought for a few moments.

“I would like to begin by asking you a rather strange question, Miss Warrender”, he said. “How attached are you to England?”

That was indeed a strange question, and I had to think a little about it. I was of course very patriotic and loved my country, but I would had to admit that the fast-rising population of the city made me yearn more and more for some small country retreat. Mr. Holmes nodded at my answer, then hesitated.

“Miss Warrender”, he said gravely, “you are evidently a lady of strong character, and I am compelled to be frank with you. I am involved with a case at this moment of great import, and I fear that your brother may be involved.”

“But Beau is a judge!” I objected.

“I did not say as a criminal”, Mr. Holmes said (had I been sharper, I might have noticed the evasion). “However, someone has clearly made inquiries into your family, and may I say that it was observant of you all to spot it, and that you were quite correct to lay this matter before me. Miss Warrender, I must be blunt. The danger that surrounds your brother now threatens to involve you and your sisters, and possibly even their families.”

“What can be done?” I asked, trying not to show my fear. He hesitated again.

“Madam, have you courage?” he asked. “Courage to undertake a task that will involve following certain instructions, and then do exactly as I say thereafter?”

“Well...”

“I cannot allow you to undertake this, however, without fully apprising you of the dangers”, Mr. Holmes said. “If what I am planning is successful, then you will need to quit England for a while, and possibly you may never get to return. But you could have your choice of anywhere in the world, and I would of course arrange all your finances so that money would never be a problem.”

I stared at him, aghast, before pulling myself together.

“Well, there is my nephew, Stephen” I said. “Patty's eldest. He married a lady from Newfoundland, the island off Canada, and went to live there. He writes to me of the place, and makes it sound just like home. And he did mention that I might consider retiring there one day.”

“Then that is where you may go”, Mr. Holmes smiled. “Once you have done what I ask, you must go home and pack two large bags of everything that you wish to take with you. I can deal with the sale of the house for you and related matters, so do no worry over such trivialities.”

I took a deep breath. My day was not turning out quite how I had expected.

“What would you have me do?” I asked.

+~+~+

I had not expected anything daring or dangerous in Mr. Holmes' request, but the sheer banality of it struck me as bordering on the comical. I was to acquire a cake and, on a certain day, pay a visit to my brother and spend some little time talking with him. 

That was it.

Beau was surprised to see me, but fortunately as I had amended Mr. Holmes' plan slightly to bring him six of his favourite jam doughnuts, he was pleased enough. Of course we did not discuss any of his cases – I am sure that they would have been above my head anyway, let alone the gruesome details that might have emerged – and I left him, feeling that whatever Mr. Holmes had meant to achieve by my visit, then at least I had played my part.

+~+~+

Two days later, I had an unexpected visitor just after breakfast. It was Doctor Watson.

“Madam”, he said urgently, “the time for action has come. A ship is leaving Plymouth for Boston this evening, and it is _imperative_ that you be on board!”

“How will I get there?” I asked worriedly. He produced a brown envelope.

“The cab outside is waiting take us to Paddington Station”, he said, “where you will catch the half-past nine train. Sherlock has reserved a first-class seat in a ladies compartment for you, and you will have about three hours when you get to Plymouth before the ship sails. A first-class berth will take you to Boston, where you will spend a night before boarding a second ship that calls in at St. John's. We would have liked to send you straight there, but we need to act _now_.”

“But what about my brother and sisters?” I asked. He picked up the two bags that I had ready by the door.

“Is there anything else that you need?” he asked.

“Well, no....”

“Then let us depart!”

For the last time ever, I left my home.

+~+~+

Unfortunately, conversation in the cab proved impossible; indeed, I have never been on so terrifying a ride in my life, as the man seemed determined to make his destination in record time. Doctor Watson apologized once we finally (and thankfully!) arrived at Paddington, but said that our catching the train was of great import. As the rapid journey meant that we still had half an hour or so, we took a seat in the restaurant there and, over a fortifying cup of tea, he explained matters to me. It did not start well.

“I am sorry to have to tell you”, he began, “that your brother is dead.”

I stared at him in shock.

“But how? I demanded. “I only saw him the other day.”

He took a deep breath.

“My friend deals with all aspects of the criminal world”, he said. “For the past few years, he has been aware of efforts by one man in particular, a Professor James Moriarty, to gain control of that world.”

I had read that name in the paper one time.

“Did not the “Times” call him a doctor?” I asked.

“He trained as such Abroad”, he said scornfully, "where standards to obtain that title are considerably lower than in Great Britain. We have frustrated his ambitions on a number of occasions, and of late we finally had a chance to make a move against the man himself. The case that you read about, the killing of the East End pawnbroker Mr. Edward Fitzroy. That was carried out by one of Professor Moriarty's henchmen.”

I shuddered again. What sort of world had I stumbled in to?

“It became imperative that the Fitzroy case be brought to trial as quickly as possible”, Doctor Watson went on. “There were two witnesses whose evidence was critical. Naturally Professor Moriarty was expending every effort to find and eliminate them, so we had to protect them.”

“But where does poor Beau fit into all this?” I asked. 

He reddened, and I began to have a bad feeling that I knew what was coming. I was right.

“Money will buy many men”, he said sadly, “and sorry though I am to say it, Professor Moriarty was able to 'buy' your brother's complicity in his dark deeds. Mr. Holmes knew of this - one of the people he had helped warned him - and so arranged matters such that your brother was one of a very small number of people who knew the address of the safe-house where the two witnesses were being kept. A few hours ago, your brother was told that they were about to be moved and that the trial would start almost immediately thereafter. He took a gun and went round there, meaning to eliminate them, and was killed in the attempt.”

I stared at him in shock.

“And me?” I said in a small voice. He hesitated.

“Professor Moriarty has always worked on the rule that any danger, no matter how remote, must be eliminated”, he said. “When my friend made his interest in this case evident, he naturally reasoned that someone had talked, and so set about checking out your family. Your visit to your brother the other day, and the fact that you spent some time talking, was to lead him to the conclusion that you were the person who talked.”

“I could have been killed!” I said angrily. He shook his head.

“Miss Warrender”, he said slowly, “three of the very best private security agents have been stationed around you and/or your house since that visit. Your lawyer gentlemen were pulled onto a case that involved their sudden travel to Norfolk, which is why they did not require your services and importantly, that you did not need to leave your house.”

“What if they hunt me down?” I fretted.

“You will see that the name on the tickets is 'Mrs. Ffarquhar”, he said, “and the envelope here has all the documentation that you will need in that name. One of my friend's agents is on their way to America, and will take up your trail from there, Another agent will be undertaking a flight from London as you, and heading to the house of your nephew William who lives in the south of Italy. The records will subsequently show that she was killed on the way there in a railway accident.”

I had to admire his thoroughness. I looked around the busy, bustling masterpiece of Mr. Isambard Kingdom Brunel and thought wryly that I was leaving England, never to return. And to think that I had once wished for more excitement in my humdrum life!

Those wiseacres were right about being careful what you wished for!

+~+~+

There is little more to be said. I had a most pleasant journey – first-class all the way – and exchanged my documentation with a lady at Boston, receiving more false papers in return. I eventually reached my new cottage which was less than half an hour's walk from my nephew's house. And there I have lived ever since. 

I subsequently read the dramatic story of how poor Mr. Holmes plunged to his death with that vile Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. Only three years later did I learn that it had all been a ruse, and that the great man was alive and well, and still with his Watson (it was a telegram from the latter on his friend's return, which was kind of him). They offered me the opportunity to return to England if I so wished, but I am happy here, so I declined. It was the doctor who asked me if I might write my own small part in the story of he and his friend, and I have fulfilled that duty.

_[End narration by Miss Millicent Nigella Warrender]"_

+~+~+

Next, the final problem.


End file.
